Cometh the Hour

26

“Good morning, Mrs. Clifton. My name is Eddie Lister. We met briefly at your mother-in-law’s funeral, but there’s no reason you should remember me.”

“How did you know Maisie, Mr. Lister?” Emma asked, because he was right, she couldn’t place him.

“I’m chairman of the governors of the Bristol Royal Infirmary. She was one of our volunteers and will be sadly missed by patients and staff alike.”

“I had no idea,” said Emma. “What did she do?”

“She was in charge of the lending library and organized the daily rota for the book trolley to be taken around the wards. More people read books at BRI than in almost any other hospital in the country.”

“Why am I not surprised,” said Emma. “Are you looking for someone to replace her, because if you are, I’d certainly be happy to do so.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Clifton, that isn’t the reason I’m calling.”

“But I’m confident I could organize the library and, what’s more, my family has had a close association with the hospital for many years. My grandfather, Sir Walter Barrington, was chairman of the governors, my husband was nursed back to health at BRI after being seriously wounded by a German landmine in 1945, and my mother spent the last months of her life there under the care of Dr. Raeburn. What’s more, I was born at the Royal Infirmary.”

“I’m impressed, Mrs. Clifton, but I still don’t think you’re the right person to organize the book trolley.”

“May I ask why you won’t even consider me?”

“Because I was rather hoping you’d agree to become a governor of the hospital.”

Emma was momentarily silenced. “I’m not altogether sure I know what a hospital governor does.”

“Every major NHS hospital — and ours is one of the largest in the country — has a board of governors drawn from the local community.”

“And what would my responsibilities be?”

“We hold a meeting every quarter, and I also invite each trustee to take an interest in one particular department of the hospital. I thought nursing might appeal to you. Our senior matron, Mima Puddicombe, represents the two thousand nurses who work full- or part-time at BRI. I should mention that if you agree to become a governor, there is no remuneration or expenses. I realize you are a busy woman, Mrs. Clifton, with many responsibilities, but I do hope you’ll give some thought to my proposal before you make—”

“I’ve thought about it.”

Mr. Lister sighed. “Yes, I feared you’d be too busy with all your other commitments, and of course I thoroughly understand—”

“I’d be delighted to become a governor of the hospital, Mr. Chairman. When do I start?”

“Marshal Koshevoi is becoming somewhat restless, Comrade Brandt. He thinks it’s time you came up with something a little more tangible. After all, you’ve been living with Barrington for the past year and all you’ve produced so far is the minutes of the Labour Party’s weekly meetings in the House of Lords. Hardly illuminating.”

“I have to be careful, comrade director,” said Karin as they walked arm in arm down a quiet country lane. “If Barrington were to become suspicious and my cover was blown, all our painstaking preparations would have been for nothing. And while he’s in opposition, and not a member of the government, he isn’t privy to what’s going on in Whitehall. But if the Labour Party wins the next election, and Barrington is confident they will, that could all change overnight. And if I recall your exact words when I took on this assignment, ‘We are not in a hurry, we’re in this for the long game.’”

“That is still the case, comrade. However, I’m becoming concerned that you might be enjoying your bourgeois existence as Barrington’s mistress a little too much, and have forgotten where your true allegiance lies.”

“I joined the party when I was still at school, comrade director, and have always been dedicated to our cause. You have no reason to question my loyalty.”

Tap, tap, tap. They fell silent when they saw an elderly gentleman approaching.

“Good afternoon, colonel,” said Pengelly.

“Afternoon, John. How nice to see your daughter again,” said the old man, raising his hat.

“Thank you, colonel,” said Pengelly. “She’s just down for the day, and we thought a breath of country air wouldn’t do us any harm.”

“Capital,” said the colonel. “I rarely miss my constitutional. Gets me out of the house. Well, must be getting along, or the memsahib will be wondering where I am.”

“Of course, sir.” Pengelly didn’t speak again until they could no longer hear the tap, tap, tap of the colonel’s walking stick. “Has Barrington asked you to marry him?” he asked, taking Karin by surprise.

“No, comrade director, he has not. After two failed marriages, I don’t think he’ll be rushing into a third.”

“Perhaps if you were to become pregnant?” he said as they turned off the road and followed a path that led to a disused tin mine.

“What use would I be to the party then, if I had to spend all my time bringing up a child? I’m a trained operative, not a babysitter.”

“Then let’s see some proof of it, Comrade Brandt, because I can’t go on telling my masters in Moscow tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, like a parrot.”

“Barrington is attending an important meeting in Brussels next Monday, when he’ll witness the signing of the treaty that will make Britain a member of the EEC. He’s asked me to accompany him. I may be able to pick up some useful information as there will be a lot of foreign delegates around.”

“Good. With so many ambitious politicians all trying to prove how important they are, be sure to keep your ears open, especially at dinners and casual get-togethers. They have no idea how many languages you speak. And don’t switch off in the evening, when they’ll be relaxed after a drink or two and more likely to say something they might later regret, especially to a beautiful woman.”

Karin looked at her watch. “We’d better turn back. I’m supposed to be in Bristol in time for dinner with Giles and his family.”

“Wouldn’t want you to miss that,” said Pengelly, as they began to retrace their steps. “And do remember to wish Giles... a happy Christmas.”

On the journey back from Truro to Bristol, Karin couldn’t stop thinking about the dilemma she now faced. During the past year she had fallen deeply in love with Giles and had never been happier in her life, but she’d become trapped, playing a role she no longer believed in, and she couldn’t see a way out of the maze. If she suddenly stopped supplying information for the Stasi, her masters would call her back to Berlin, or worse. If she lost Giles, she would have nothing to live for. By the time she drove through the gates of the Manor House, the dilemma hadn’t been resolved, and wouldn’t be, unless...

“Is Karin joining us for dinner?” asked Emma as she poured her brother a whisky.

“Yes, she’s driving up from Cornwall. She’s been to visit her father, so she may be a little late.”

“She’s so bright and full of life,” said Emma. “I can’t imagine what she sees in you.”

“I agree. And it’s not as if she doesn’t know how I feel about her, because I’ve asked her to marry me enough times.”

“Why do you think she keeps turning you down?” asked Harry.

“With my track record, who can blame her? But I think she may be weakening.”

“That’s good news, and I’m so pleased you’ll both be joining us for Christmas.”

“And how are you enjoying the Lords these days?” asked Harry, changing the subject.

“It’s been fascinating shadowing Geoffrey Rippon, who’s been in charge of our application to join the EEC. In fact I’m off to Brussels next week to witness the signing of the treaty.”

“I read your speech in Hansard,” said Harry, “and I agreed with your sentiments. Let me see if I can remember your exact words, ‘Some talk of the economy, others of trade relations, but I will vote for this bill if for no other reason than it will ensure that our country’s youth will only have to read about two world wars, and will never have to experience a third.’”

“I’m flattered.”

“And what does the new year hold for you, Giles?” asked Emma, filling up his glass.

“I’ve been drafted onto the general election team and put in charge of the marginal seats campaign. Even better news, Griff Haskins has agreed to come out of retirement and act as my chief of staff.”

“So the two of you will be roaming around the country doing what, exactly?” asked Emma.

“Visiting the sixty-two marginal seats that will determine the outcome of the next election. If we win them all — which is most unlikely — we’ll end up with a majority of around thirty.”

“And if you lose them all?”

“The Conservatives will remain in power. I’ll be history, and I suspect your friend Margaret Thatcher will be the next Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

“I can’t wait,” said Emma.

“Did you take up her offer to meet again?”

“She’s invited me to have a drink with her in the Commons in a couple of weeks’ time.”

“Not lunch?” said Harry.

“She doesn’t do lunch,” said Giles.

Emma laughed. “So don’t regard anything you tell me as private, because I’ve got both feet firmly in the enemy’s camp.”

“My own sister, plotting against me.”

“You’d better believe it.”

“No need to get too worried,” said Harry. “Emma’s just been appointed a governor of the Bristol Royal Infirmary so she isn’t going to have a lot of time left over for politics.”

“Congratulations, sis. Eddie Lister is a first-class chairman and you’ll enjoy serving under him. But what made you agree to take on such a demanding commitment?”

“Maisie. It turns out she was a hospital volunteer, in charge of the library. I didn’t even know.”

“Then you can be sure every book had to be properly stamped and back on time if you didn’t want to be fined.”

“She’ll be a hard act to follow, as everyone continually reminds me. I’ve already discovered that a hospital is a fascinating twenty-four-hour operation. It rather puts Barrington’s Shipping in the shade.”

“Which department has Eddie asked you to shadow?”

“Nursing. The senior matron and I are already meeting once a week. An NHS hospital is very different from a public company because no one thinks about profits, only patients.”

“You’ll end up a socialist yet,” said Giles.

“Not a hope. The bottom line still dictates the success or failure of any organization, so I’ve asked Sebastian to trawl through the hospital’s annual accounts to see if he can spot any ways of cutting costs or making savings.”

“How’s Sebastian doing,” asked Giles, “remembering all he’s been through?”

“He’s more or less fully recovered physically, but I suspect that mentally it will take considerably longer.”

“That’s understandable,” said Giles. “First Sam, and then Priya. How can we even begin to understand how he’s coping?”

“He’s simply immersed himself in work,” said Emma. “Since he’s become the bank’s chief executive he’s been working hours that make no sense. In fact he doesn’t seem to have any personal life at all.”

“Have either of you raised the delicate subject of Samantha?” asked Giles.

“Once or twice,” said Harry, “but it’s always the same response. He won’t consider getting in touch with her while Michael is still alive.”

“Does that also apply to Jessica?”

“I’m afraid so, although I never mention our granddaughter unless he does.”

“But your mother was right,” said Emma. “The years are slipping by and, at this rate, Jessica will be a young woman before any of us get to meet her.”

“Sadly that may well be the case,” said Harry. “But we have to remember it’s Seb’s life that’s been thrown into turmoil, not ours.”

“Speaking of people whose lives have been thrown into turmoil,” said Emma, turning to her brother, “I often wonder how your ex-wife is coping with motherhood.”

“Not very well, I suspect,” said Giles. “And has anybody ever found out who the father is?”

“No, that remains a mystery. But whoever it is, little Freddie doesn’t seem to have interfered with Virginia’s lifestyle. I’m told she’s back on the circuit, and the drinks are on her.”

“Then the father has to be an extremely wealthy man,” said Harry.

“He does,” agreed Giles. “Wealthy enough to have bought her a house in Onslow Gardens, and for her to employ a nanny, who I gather can be seen wheeling the Hon. Frederick Archibald Iain Bruce Fenwick in his pram down Rotten Row every morning.”

“How do you know that?” asked Emma.

“We socialists don’t confine ourselves to the Times and Telegraph, sis, and what’s more—” Giles was interrupted by a knock on the front door. “That must be Karin back from Cornwall,” he said as he rose from his chair and left the room.

“Why don’t you like Karin?” asked Emma once Giles was out of earshot.

“What makes you say that?” asked Harry.

“You imagine I don’t know what you’re thinking, after more than forty years? Giles adores her, and it upsets him that you won’t accept her.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Giles and Karin strolled into the room chatting and holding hands. Harry stood up to greet her. If she wasn’t in love with Giles, he thought, she’s a damn good actress.

27

Emma hadn’t entered the Palace of Westminster since their lordships had decided she was free to marry the man she loved. Giles had invited her to join him for lunch many times, but she just couldn’t face it. She hoped a visit to the Commons would finally exorcise the ghosts of the past and, in any case, she was looking forward to meeting Mrs. Thatcher again.

With the help of a policeman and a messenger, she found her way to the tearoom, where Margaret Thatcher was standing by the door waiting for her.

“Come and join me,” she said, before leading her guest to an empty table. “I’ve already ordered tea as I had a feeling you were the kind of person who wouldn’t be late.”

Margaret, as she insisted on Emma calling her, bombarded her with questions about her thoughts on education, the NHS and even Jacques Delors. When Emma asked Margaret, if Ted Heath were to lose the next election and was forced to resign, whether she would consider standing as party leader, she didn’t hesitate in giving her opinion.

“A woman can never hope to be prime minister of this country,” she said without hesitation. “At least not in my lifetime.”

“Perhaps the Americans will show us the way.”

“It will take the Americans even longer to elect a woman president,” said Thatcher. “They are still at heart a frontier society. There are only fifteen women in Congress, and not even one in the Senate.”

“What about the Labour Party?” said Emma. “Some people are suggesting that Shirley Williams—”

“Not a hope. The unions wouldn’t stand for it. They’d never allow a woman to be their general secretary. No, we elected the first Jewish prime minister, and the first bachelor, so we’ll elect the first woman, but not in my lifetime,” Thatcher repeated.

“But other countries have already chosen women to be their PM.”

“Three of them,” said Thatcher.

“So if you can’t be the fourth, and we do win the next election, what job are you hoping to get?”

“It’s not a question of what I’m hoping to get, it’s what Ted will reluctantly offer me. And remember, Emma, in politics it’s never wise to let anyone know what you want. That’s the quickest way to make enemies and detractors. Just look surprised any time anyone offers you anything.” Emma smiled. “So tell me, what’s your brother Giles up to?”

“He’s been put in charge of the marginal seats campaign, so he spends most of his life trudging up and down the country trying to make sure Harold Wilson is returned to No.10.”

“A brilliant choice. He fought and won Bristol Docklands against the odds again and again, and there are many on our side who would have preferred to see him back in the House rather than that second-rater, Alex Fisher. And if Labour were to win, Giles might well become Leader of the Lords, which would see him back in the Cabinet. Anyway, that’s enough politics. Tell me what’s happening in the real world. I see Barrington’s Shipping had another record year.”

“Yes, but I’m beginning to feel I’m repeating myself. It may not be too long before I’m ready to hand over to my son.”

“Then what will you do? You don’t strike me as the type who’ll take up golf or start attending basket-weaving classes.”

Emma laughed. “No, but I’ve recently been appointed a governor of the Bristol Royal Infirmary.”

“A great hospital, but I’m sure you will already have discovered, unlike my socialist colleagues, that there just isn’t enough money to give every hospital not only what it would like, but even what it needs, with the development of so many new drugs. The biggest problem the health service faces is that we are no longer conveniently dying at the age of seventy, but many more people are living to eighty, ninety, even a hundred. Whoever wins the next election will have to face that problem head on, if they’re not going to saddle future generations with a mountain of debt they will never be able to repay. Perhaps you could help, Emma.”

“How?”

Thatcher lowered her voice. “You may have heard the rumors that if we win, I’ll be offered Health. It would be helpful to have a friend who works at the coalface and not just go on attending endless meetings with experts who have three degrees and no hands-on experience.”

“I’d be delighted to help in any way I can,” said Emma, flattered by the suggestion.

“Thank you,” said Margaret. “And I know it’s asking rather a lot, but it might prove useful in the long term to have an ally on the West Country area Conservative committee.”

A loud, continuous bell began clanging, almost deafening Emma. The door of the tearoom swung open and a man in a black jacket marched in and shouted, “Division!”

“Back to work, I’m afraid,” said Thatcher. “It’s a three-line whip, so I can’t ignore it.”

“What are you voting on?”

“No idea, but one of the whips will guide me into the right corridor. We were told there wouldn’t be any more votes today. This is what’s called an ambush: a vote on an amendment that we thought wasn’t controversial and would go through on the nod. I can’t complain, because if we were in opposition, we’d be doing exactly the same thing. It’s called democracy, but you already know my views on that subject. Let’s keep in touch, Emma. We Somerville girls must stick together.”

Margaret Thatcher stood up and shook hands with Emma before joining the stampede of members who were deserting the tearoom to make sure they reached the division lobbies within eight minutes, otherwise the door would be slammed in their faces.

Emma sank back into her chair, feeling simultaneously exhilarated and exhausted, and wondered if Margaret Thatcher had the same effect on everyone.

“Good of you to pop over, John. I wouldn’t have asked for a meeting at such short notice if there hadn’t been a development.”

“Not a problem, Alan, and thank you for the tip-off, because it allowed me to dig out the relevant file.”

“Perhaps you could start by bringing me up to date on Miss Brandt.”

Sir John Rennie, Director General of MI6, opened the file on the table in front of him. “Miss Brandt was born in Dresden in 1944. She joined the communist youth party at the age of sixteen, and, when she left school, went to the East German School of Languages to study Russian. After graduating, the Stasi recruited her as an interpreter at international conferences, which we assumed was no more than a front. But there’s no proof that she did much more than pass on fairly mundane information to her superiors. In fact, we were of the opinion that she’d fallen out of favor until the Giles Barrington affair.”

“Which I assume was a setup.”

“Yes. But who was being set up? Because she certainly wasn’t on our list of operatives who specialize in that sort of thing and, to be fair to Barrington, he’s steered well clear of any honey traps while on government trips behind the Iron Curtain, despite several opportunities.”

“Is it just possible that she really did fall for him?” asked the Cabinet Secretary.

“There’s nothing in your file to suggest you’re a romantic, Alan, so I’ll take your question at face value. It would certainly explain several incidents that have taken place since she arrived in the UK.”

“Such as?”

“We now know that Giles Barrington’s rescue of a damsel in distress from the other side of the Iron Curtain was actually nothing of the sort. In fact, it was a well-organized operation overseen and approved by Marshal Koshevoi.”

“Can you be sure of that?”

“Yes. When Brandt was attempting to cross the border with Barrington by bus, she was questioned by a young officer who nearly blew the whole operation. He was posted to Siberia a week later. That was what caused us to suspect they’d always wanted her to cross the border, although it’s just possible she only fell in with their plans because she really did want to escape.”

“What a devious mind you have, John.”

“I’m head of MI6, Alan, not the Boy Scouts.”

“Do you have any proof?”

“Nothing concrete. However, at a recent meeting Brandt had with her handler in Truro, our observer reported that Pengelly’s body language suggested he wasn’t at all pleased with her. Which isn’t surprising, because one of our double agents recently passed some information to her that Pengelly would certainly have reported to his masters back in Moscow, and I can tell you he didn’t, which means she didn’t.”

“That’s a risky game she’s playing. It won’t take them long to work out she isn’t keeping her side of the bargain.”

“Agreed. And once they do, she’ll be on the next flight back to East Berlin, never to be heard of again.”

“Perhaps she’d make a good candidate for turning,” suggested Sir Alan.

“Possibly, but I still need to be convinced she’s not taking us for fools. I plan to use the same agent to feed her with a piece of information Pengelly will be desperate to hear about, so I’ll know within a few days if she’s passed the message on to him.”

“Has the time come to let Barrington know he’s sleeping with the enemy? If Labour win the next election he’ll certainly be back in the Cabinet, and then someone is going to have to brief the prime minister.”

“Let’s clear that hurdle when...”

“What are you up to today, darling?”

“A little shopping this morning. Your socks either have holes in them, or they don’t match.”

“How exciting,” said Giles. “And to think I’m only opposing the new education bill.”

“I’m also hoping to find something for your sister’s birthday,” she added, ignoring the comment. “Any ideas?”

“A soap box? We’re barely on speaking terms at the moment.”

“It’s not her fault. You spend your life attacking Mrs. Thatcher.”

“Not Mrs. Thatcher, but the government’s philistine education policy. It’s never personal. You save that for your own side.”

“And I’ve been invited to have tea in the Lords’ this afternoon with Baroness Forbes-Watson, but I’m not altogether sure why.”

“She’s a sweet old bat, used to be something in the Foreign Office a hundred years ago but since her husband died she’s rather lost the plot. I know she likes to invite members’ wives to tea from time to time.”

“But I’m not your wife.”

“That’s hardly my fault,” said Giles, giving her a kiss. “I’ll try and drop into the tearoom after the vote. You may need rescuing,” he added as he picked up the Times. He smiled when he saw the headline. “I must call Emma.”

“She’s the statutory woman,” said Harry, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

“What did you just say?”

“I didn’t say it. Ted Heath did. the Times,” he continued picking his morning paper back up, “reports him as saying, ‘If it’s necessary to have a woman in the Cabinet, it may as well be Margaret.’”

Emma was speechless, but only for a moment. “That’s certain to endear him to fifty percent of the electorate,” she finally managed.

“Fifty-two percent, according to the Times.”

“Sometimes I despair for the Tory party,” said Emma, as the phone rang.

Harry put down his paper, walked across to the sideboard and picked up the phone. “Hello, Giles, yes, I did read the piece about Margaret Thatcher in the Times. Yes, of course. It’s your brother on the line, wants to have a word with you,” said Harry, unable to hide a smirk.

Emma folded her napkin, put it back in its ring, stood up and made her way slowly out of the room. “Tell him I’m out canvassing.”

After Karin had bought six pairs of gray woollen socks, size nine, and a black leather handbag that she knew Emma coveted, she boarded a bus in Sloane Square and headed for the Palace of Westminster. A badge messenger directed her to the Lords’ tearoom. “Never step off the red carpet, madam, and you won’t go far wrong.”

As she entered the tearoom, Karin immediately spotted a gray-haired old lady hunched up in the corner looking as if she might have been Margaret Rutherford’s older sister. She managed a wave, and Karin walked across to join her.

“Cynthia Forbes-Watson,” the old lady said, trying to rise from her place.

“No, no,” said Karin quickly, sitting down opposite her hostess.

“How lovely to meet you,” said the old lady, offering a thin, bony hand, although her voice was strong. “I read about your amazing escape from behind the Iron Curtain. That must have been quite an ordeal.”

“It would never have been possible without Giles.”

“Yes, he’s a fine man, if occasionally impetuous,” she said as a waiter appeared by their side. “Tea for two, Stanley, and a couple of those awful crumpets, slightly burnt. And don’t be mean with the butter.”

“Certainly, my lady.”

“I see you’ve been shopping.”

“Yes, Giles needed some socks. It’s also his sister’s birthday and he forgot to get her a present. She and her husband are joining us for dinner this evening.”

“It’s never easy to find the right present for another woman,” said the baroness, as a tray of tea and two slightly burnt crumpets was placed on the table between them. “I’ll be mother. Milk?”

“Yes, please,” said Karin.

“Sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

“How sensible,” said the baroness as she put two heaped spoonfuls in her own cup. “But then it’s a bit late for me to be worrying about my figure.” Karin laughed dutifully. “Now, you must be wondering why I wanted to see you.”

“Giles told me you regularly hold little tea parties.”

“Not like this one I don’t.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

The baroness put down her cup and looked directly at Karin. “I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say, young lady.” Although she spoke softly, her words were clear. “This will be the only time we ever meet, unless you follow my instructions to the letter.”

Karin wondered if she was joking, but it was obvious from her manner she was serious.

“We British like to give the impression of being bumbling amateurs, but some of us aren’t that easily fooled, and although it made an exciting story for the press, your escape from East Berlin was just a little too convenient.”

Karin felt herself shaking.

“If the Labour Party were to win the next election, you would be well placed to cause considerable embarrassment, not only for the government, but for this country.”

Karin gripped the arms of her chair.

“We’ve known for some time that John Pengelly isn’t your father, and that he reports directly to Marshal Koshevoi. But what puzzles us is that although you’ve been living in this country for more than two years, you don’t appear to have passed any information of real significance to the other side.”

Karin wished Giles would come and rescue her, but she knew there was no chance of that.

“I’m relieved you’re not foolish enough to deny it, because there is a way out of this mess, as long as you’re willing to cooperate.”

Karin said nothing.

“I’m going to give you the chance to work for this country. I will personally make sure that you are regularly supplied with information that will keep the Stasi convinced you’re still working for them. But in return we will expect to know everything Pengelly is up to, and I mean everything.”

Karin picked up her cup but her hand was trembling so much she put it straight back down.

“I will be your handler,” the baroness continued, “and what better cover could you have than the occasional tea with a silly old bat from the House of Lords? That’s the story you’ll tell Giles, unless you want him to find out the truth.”

“No, that’s the last thing I want,” stammered Karin.

“Then let’s keep it that way. My husband, dear man, went to his grave thinking I was an undersecretary at the FCO, which indeed I was, to all intents and purposes. He would have burst out laughing if you’d suggested I was a spy. I should warn you, Miss Brandt, that if you feel unable to go along with our plan, you will be on the next flight back to East Berlin, and I will be the one who has to tell Lord Barrington the truth.” She paused. “I see you have some feeling for Giles.”

“I adore him,” said Karin without guile.

“So, Sir John got that right. You really did want to escape from East Germany to be with him. Well, you’ll just have to go on fooling most of the people most of the time. Ah, I see Giles heading toward us. If I receive a thank-you note from you tomorrow, I’ll know which side you’re on. If I don’t, you and Pengelly had better be on a flight to East Germany before dusk.”

“Cynthia, you don’t look a day over forty,” said Giles.

“And you’re still an incorrigible flirt and flatterer, Giles Barrington.”

“Guilty. It was kind of you to invite Karin to tea.”

“We’ve had a most interesting conversation.”

“And now I must drag her away as we’re taking my sister out to dinner tonight.”

“To celebrate her birthday, Karin tells me. I won’t detain you any longer.”

Karin got up unsteadily, picked up her shopping bag and said, “Thank you for tea.”

“I do hope you’ll come again, Karin.”

“I’d like that.”

“A remarkable old biddy,” said Giles as they walked down the corridor, “although no one seems to be quite sure what she did at the Foreign Office. More important, did you remember to buy me some socks?”

“Yes, I did, darling. Cynthia told me that she was an undersecretary at the FCO.”

“I’m sure she was... And did you manage to find a present for Emma?”

28

Emma was running late for her meeting. Attempting to juggle three balls at once was a skill she’d had to learn very quickly, and for the first time in her life there had been moments when she wondered if she had taken on more than she could handle.

Chairing the family company remained her first priority, and what she described to Harry as the day job. However, her responsibilities as a governor of the hospital were taking up far more of her time than she had originally anticipated. Officially, she was expected to attend four board meetings a year and to devote two days a month to hospital business. But it hadn’t been long before she found herself doing two days a week. There was no one but herself to blame, because she enjoyed every minute of her responsibilities as the governor overseeing the nursing staff.

The hospital employed over two thousand nurses and hundreds of doctors, and the senior matron, Mima Puddicombe, was not old school, but ancient school. Florence Nightingale would happily have taken her to the Crimea. Emma enjoyed learning about the day-to-day problems Mima faced; at one end of the scale were grandiose consultants who imagined they were omnipotent, while at the other were patients who knew their rights. Somewhere in between were the nurses, who were expected to take care of both, while making sure a smile never left their faces. It was no wonder Mima had never married. She had two thousand anxious daughters, and a thousand unruly sons.

Emma had soon become engrossed in the daily routines of the hospital and was touched that Mima not only sought her advice, but treated her as an equal, sharing her anxieties and ambitions for the hospital to which she had devoted her life. But the meeting Emma was running late for had nothing to do with her duties at the hospital.

Earlier that morning, the prime minister had visited the Queen at Buckingham Palace and sought her permission to dissolve Parliament, so that a general election could be called. Emma had kept her promise to Margaret Thatcher and joined the election committee that oversaw the seventy-one constituencies in the West Country. She represented Bristol, with its seven seats, two of which were marginal, one of them her brother’s old stomping ground. For the next three weeks she and Giles would be standing on opposite sides of the road, imploring the electorate to support their cause.

Emma was thankful the campaign would be over in a month because she had to accept that Barrington’s and the hospital were not going to see a lot of her until after polling day. Harry never got used to her creeping into bed after midnight and then disappearing before he woke the following morning. Most men would have suspected their wife had a lover. Emma had three.

It was a bitterly cold afternoon and the two of them put on heavy coats, scarves and gloves before they went out for their usual walk. They only spoke of inconsequential matters until they reached the abandoned tin mine, where there would be no colonels, tourists or noisy children to disturb them.

“Do you have anything worthwhile to report, Comrade Brandt, or is this another wasted journey?”

“The Home Fleet will be carrying out exercises off Gibraltar on February twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth, when the Royal Navy’s new nuclear submarine will be in service for the first time.”

“How did you get hold of that piece of information?” said Pengelly.

“Barrington and I were invited to dine with the First Sea Lord at Admiralty House. I’ve found that if you remain silent long enough you blend into the background, like wallpaper.”

“Well done, comrade. I knew you’d come good in the end.”

“Can I seek your advice on another matter, comrade director?” After double-checking that there was no one who could overhear them, Pengelly nodded. “Barrington has asked me to be his wife. How would the party want me to respond?”

“You should accept, of course. Once you’re married, they’d never be able to expose you because it could bring down the government.”

“If that’s what you want, comrade director.”

Emma returned home at ten o’clock on the evening of the election, and she and Harry sat up through the night following the results from all over the country. It quickly became clear after the first count was declared in Billericay that the outcome was going to be too close to call, and when the last seat was announced in County Down in Northern Ireland just after 4:30 the following afternoon, the Labour Party had captured the most seats, 301 to 297, although the Tories had won the popular vote, by over 200,000.

Ted Heath refused to resign as prime minister, and spent the next few days trying to cobble together a coalition with the Liberals, which would have given the Tories an overall majority. But it fell apart when Jeremy Thorpe, the Liberal leader, demanded as part of their acquiescence that proportional representation had to be enacted in law before the next election. Heath knew his backbenchers wouldn’t deliver, so he returned to Buckingham Palace and informed the Queen that he was unable to form a government.

The following morning, Her Majesty called for the Labour leader and invited him to form a minority government. Harold Wilson took up residence at No.10 Downing Street and spent the rest of the day appointing his Cabinet.

Emma was delighted when the television cameras followed Giles walking up Downing Street to keep an appointment with the prime minister. He came out of No.10 twenty minutes later, as Leader of the House of Lords. She called her brother to congratulate him on the appointment.

“Double congratulations are in order,” said Giles. “Karin has finally agreed to marry me.”

Emma could not have been more pleased, but when she told Harry the news that evening, he didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm. She would have probed as to why he was always so negative about Karin if the phone hadn’t rung and interrupted her. The local paper was on the line asking if she wanted to make a statement, not about the minority government or her brother’s appointment, but the tragic death of Eddie Lister.

Emma attended an emergency meeting of the hospital’s governors the following evening. The meeting opened with a minute’s silence in memory of the late chairman, who had suffered a heart attack while climbing in the Alps with his two sons. Emma’s thoughts were with Eddie’s wife, Wendy, who had flown out to Switzerland to be with her children and bring her husband’s body home.

The second item on the agenda was to elect a new chairman. Nick Caldercroft, Eddie’s long-serving deputy, was proposed, seconded and elected nem. con. to take Eddie’s place. He spoke warmly of the man he had had the honor of serving under and pledged to carry on with his legacy.

“But,” he emphasized, “that task will be made a lot easier if we select the right person to be my deputy. None of you will be surprised to learn that my first choice is Emma Clifton.”

Emma wasn’t surprised, she was shocked, as the idea had never crossed her mind. However, as she looked around the boardroom table, it appeared that everyone agreed with the new chairman. Emma began mentally composing a few words about how she was flattered by their confidence in her but sadly it wasn’t possible at the present time because... But then she looked up and saw the photograph of her grandfather staring down at her. Sir Walter Barrington was giving her that gimlet-eyed look she remembered so well from her schooldays, when she’d been caught doing something naughty.

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. It’s a great honor and I shall try to prove worthy of your confidence.”

Returning home later that evening she had to explain to Harry why she was clutching a thick bundle of files. He didn’t look surprised. “After all,” he said, “you were the obvious choice.”

When the phone rang, Emma said firmly, “If it’s the Queen, say thank you but I just haven’t the time to be prime minister.”

“It isn’t the Queen,” said Harry, “but she might just be the next prime minister,” he added as he handed Emma the phone.

“I wanted to call and thank you, Emma,” said Margaret Thatcher, “for all the hard work you did for the party in the West Country during the campaign, and to warn you that I’m pretty sure there will be another election within a few months, when we will need to call on your help again.”

Mrs. Thatcher’s prediction turned out to be correct, because the Labour Party were unable to win every vote in the division lobby, night after night, often having to rely on the support of some of the smaller parties, and on one occasion even bringing a member in on a stretcher. It came as no surprise when in September Harold Wilson asked the Queen to dissolve Parliament for the second time within a year. Three weeks later, fighting under the banner NOW YOU KNOW LABOUR GOVERNMENT WORKS, Wilson was returned to No.10 Downing Street with a Commons majority of three.

Emma’s first call was not to Giles to congratulate him on retaining his seat in the Cabinet, but to Margaret Thatcher at her home in Flood Street, Chelsea.

“You have to stand for the leadership of the party, Margaret.”

“There isn’t a vacancy,” Mrs. Thatcher reminded her, “and there’s no suggestion that Ted is considering giving up the post.”

“Then kick him into touch,” said Emma firmly. “Perhaps it’s time to remind him he’s lost us three elections out of four.”

“True,” said Thatcher, “but the Tories are not known for ditching their leaders, as you’ll discover when you talk to the party faithful at your next area committee meeting. By the way, Ted has spent the last week calling every constituency chairman one by one.”

“It’s not the constituency chairmen who will choose the next leader of the party,” said Emma, “but your colleagues in the House. They’re the only ones who have a vote. So perhaps you should be calling them one by one.”

Emma watched from a distance as speculation over the party leadership became more and more rife. She’d never read so many newspapers, listened to so many radio discussions or watched so many television debates, often late into the night.

Apparently oblivious to what was going on around him, Ted Heath, like Nero, went on playing his fiddle. But then, in an attempt to stamp his authority on the party, he called a leadership election for February 4, 1975.

Over the next few days Emma tried repeatedly to call Margaret Thatcher, but her line was constantly engaged.

When she finally got through, Emma didn’t bother with pleasantries. “You’ll never have a better chance of leading the party than now,” she said. “Not least because Heath’s old cabinet chums aren’t willing to stand against him.”

“You may be right,” said Margaret, “which is why some of my colleagues in the Commons are trying to gauge my chances, should I decide to throw my hat into the ring.”

“You have to make your move now, while the men still think they’re part of an old boys’ club that would never allow a woman to become a member.”

“I know you’re right, Emma, but I only have a few cards to play and must be careful about which ones I select and when to show them. One mistake, and I could be on the back benches for the rest of my political career. But please keep in touch. You know how much I value your opinion as someone who’s not holed up in the Westminster village, only thinking about what’s in it for them.”

Emma turned out to be right about the “old boys’ club,” because all the big beasts in the party remained loyal to Heath, along with the Telegraph and Mail. Only the Spectator kept pressing Mrs. Thatcher to stand. And when, to Emma’s delight, she finally did allow her name to go forward, the announcement was met by Heath’s inner circle with ridicule and contempt, while the press refused to take her challenge seriously. In fact, Heath told anyone who would listen that she was no more than a stalking horse.

“He’s about to discover that she’s a Thoroughbred,” was all Emma had to say on the subject.

On the day of the vote, Giles invited his sister to join him for lunch in the House of Lords so she would be among the first to learn the result. Emma found the atmosphere in the corridors of power electric, and understood for the first time why so many otherwise rational human beings couldn’t resist the roar of the political jungle.

She accompanied Giles up to the first floor so she could watch the Tory members as they entered committee room 7 to cast their votes. There was no sign of any of the five candidates, just their acolytes swarming around, trying to persuade last-minute waverers that their candidate was certain to win.

At six o’clock, the door to committee room 7 slammed shut so the chairman of the 1922 Committee could preside over the count. Fifteen minutes later, even before Edward du Cann had a chance to announce the result, a loud cheer went up from inside the committee room. Everyone standing in the corridor fell silent as they waited for the news.

“She’s won!” went up the cry, and like falling dominoes, the words were repeated again and again until they reached the crowds on the street outside.

Emma was invited to join the victor for a celebratory drink in her room.

“I haven’t won yet,” said Thatcher after Airey Neave had raised a glass to the new Leader of the Opposition. “Let’s not forget that was only the first round, and someone else is bound to stand against me. Not until then will we discover if a woman can not only lead the Tory party, but become prime minister. Let’s get back to work,” she added, not allowing her glass to be refilled.

It wasn’t until later, much later, that Emma called Harry to explain why she’d missed the last train to Bristol.

On the journey back to the West Country the following morning, Emma began to think about her priorities and the allocation of her time. She had already decided to resign as area chairman of the Conservative Association if Ted Heath had been reelected as leader, but she accepted that, having trumpeted Margaret Thatcher’s cause, she would now have to remain in her post until after the next general election. But how would she juggle being chairman of Barrington’s and deputy chairman of the hospital’s trustees, along with her responsibilities to the party, when there were only twenty-four hours in each day? She was still wrestling with the problem when she got off the train at Temple Meads and joined the taxi queue. She was no nearer solving it by the time the cabbie dropped her outside the Manor House.

As she opened the front door, she was surprised to see Harry come rushing out of his study during a writing session.

“What is it, darling?” she asked, worried that it could only be bad news.

“Nick Croft has called three times and asked if you’d ring him the moment you got back.”

Emma picked up the phone in the hall and dialed the number Harry had written down on the pad next to the phone. Her call was answered after only one ring.

“It’s Emma.” She listened carefully to what the chairman had to say. “I’m so very sorry, Nick,” she said eventually. “And of course I understand why you feel you have to resign.”